


Dust

by fengirl88



Series: Trouble With Harry [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/F, Femslash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-19
Updated: 2011-04-19
Packaged: 2017-10-18 09:26:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 456
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/187421
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fengirl88/pseuds/fengirl88
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Doing housework at 3 a.m. is emphatically <i>not</i> normal, Clara knows that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dust

**Author's Note:**

> written for lawyerdown's birthday, and set between Water and Juice, though it can be read as a standalone. thanks to blooms84 for her encouragement with this one, and to marysutherland for a useful exchange about specialist knowledge.

Doing housework at 3 a.m. is emphatically _not_ normal, Clara knows that. But she couldn't bear the state of the kitchen floor any longer. The last time she'd cleaned was before Harry moved out. Which is _months_ ago now.

She'd cleared out Harry's stuff, most of it anyway, though it had taken her weeks to summon up the courage for the handover. Changed her will, revoked Harry's power of attorney, put in the paperwork for what everyone insists on calling _the divorce_ and Clara stubbornly, correctly - _if a lawyer can't get this right she really **is** fucked_ \- goes on calling _the dissolution_.

The first time she'd seen John using the phone she gave Harry, she'd thought she was going to throw up. She'd almost got it together to ask him to give it back to her, swap it for another one so she could smash that stupid gift and all its hopes to atoms. Just as well she didn't, because he seems oddly attached to it. Probably best not to ask why.

So all that's left of her and Harry is the dust she's sweeping up now, hair and skin cells from when they were still together mixed with Clara's hair and skin cells in the months since Harry walked away.

Dust, and the residue that doesn't show.

All that intensely specialized knowledge no-one else has, that you don't know what to do with when the relationship ends. All the details of quirks, preferences, obsessions, personal history, variations on King Charles's Head. Favourite jokes, catch-phrases, the noises she makes when she's having a nightmare. The other noises, seldom heard recently. Seldom felt recently: her body, unclothed, against yours, also unclothed. The way her face looks close up, naked and defenceless. Her hair falling around you like a tent. Her thighs tightening around your neck as she strains against your tongue. The games and the laughter, the inconvenient public desire. The pang that almost doubles you up at the sight of her tongue licking an errant drop from the side of her coffee cup. The impossible speed of that mouth. The impossible speed of that brain. The meanness, the cruelty, the sudden anger, the intransigent clinging to chaos, negativity, depression. The varieties of addiction. The closing in of space, finding nowhere to stand or sit or lie down any more. The claustrophobia of being close to that mind, trapped in its rat-runs. All that.

The dust comes up with surprising ease. What's in the head will take longer to shift.

Her mobile buzzes: another small-hours text from Harry. Saying she needs to see her, she's got something important to tell her.

 _Here we go again_ , Clara thinks wearily. She hits Ignore and switches off the phone.


End file.
